Drown Thy Sorrows
by Bundibird
Summary: Stupid movies. He should have known they’d come back to haunt him one day. Angst, and a very drunk Tony. Tony's reaction to the news Gibbs brings. Oneshot. **SPOILERS FOR 7.01**


**AN****: SPOILERS FOR 7:01, 'TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCE' (Which was a FANTASTIC) episode. Because I really would have liked to see more of Tony's reaction.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own NCIS. Just the plot of this little shot. **

_**OoO**_

_**Drown Thy Sorrows**_

_**OoO**_

Tony tilted the bottle high, waiting for the liquid numbing-agent to hit his tongue, and he frowned drunkenly when he tasted nothing. Dropping the bottle down to eye-level, Tony attempted to peer through the dark glass to see the contents.

Empty.

Well. That would explain the lack of substance in his mouth.

Tony dropped the empty – and thus, totally useless – bottle to the floor as he stood unsteadily, using the couch he'd been sitting against as support.

It was like being back on the damn Ronald Regan the room was tilting so much.

Somehow, he made it to the kitchen. And he only fell once on the way. Impressive, really, given his current lack of equilibrium.

Aah – success. There, in the fridge – three wonderful beers.

Three?

Tony frowned. He was sure he'd had at least a dozen in there yesterday…

He wondered vaguely who'd drunk them all, then shrugged, already past caring, and reached for one of the remaining bottles.

Three misses later, and Tony finally managed to catch one. He took a moment to pop the lid (narrowly avoiding drenching himself in the process) before he took a swig and headed back to the couch.

He settled his back against it, choosing to sit on the floor rather than on the cushions. He didn't really know why. Not as far to fall maybe?

His eyes roamed listlessly about the room, glancing off things, never settling. In direct contrast, no matter how much he tried – or how much alcohol he drank, apparently – he couldn't keep his mind from settling on the one thing he wanted to never think of again.

Ziva.

Dead.

It was still not entirely sunk in – his brain was still refusing to register the dreadful, gut wrenching news as _fact._

Because surely, there was no way… she couldn't really be… the ninja who could throw a knife and fire a gun at the same time and somehow hit both her targets dead on… the girl who could flatten two men who were triple her size and trying to kill her… the woman who could hold her own in a fight with a freakin' Navy Seal…

Surely she – surely The Ziva David wasn't… dead.

This was all a bad dream. It had to be. All of it – right from where that bastard Rivkin first called Ziva to tell her he was in Washington. All a dream. He must have fallen asleep on his desk and imagined it all.

And he would wake up to a ball of paper bouncing off his head as Ziva warned him that Gibbs was coming back, or if Gibbs did that silent-pop-up-right-behind-you thing that he's so good at and Ziva didn't have _time_ to throw a ball of paper then Tony was about to wake up from one of those infamous head-slaps.

But he didn't wake up. And it wasn't all a dream.

He wondered – since it appeared his brain wasn't going to leave the topic alone – how she had felt as she died. Scared? No. Pissed off – now _that,_ Tony could imagine. Ziva didn't get scared. Then again – Ziva had never before been on a sinking boat with no hope of survival either.

He'd seen _Pearl Harbour_. Seen it with Ziva, actually. He'd practically sat her down and told her she was going to be educated, horrified when she'd said "Pearl Harbour?" by her lack of American knowledge – both movie-style and historical.

All those fingers grasping through the holes in the submarine, clinging desperately to life as workers hurried to free the trapped men below. At least the _Pearl Harbour_ guys had someone working to save them. Ziva wouldn't have had that, stuck in the middle of the ocean as she had been.

Had Ziva been like those men? Reaching out through a tiny gap, unable to fit any of her body through except for her hands, wishing she could draw in oxygen through her fingertips? And had her fingers stilled, never to move again, just like the men in _Pearl Harbour,_ when the water rose above her head and the lack of oxygen finally took hold?

Or had it been faster than that? Like in _Poseidon_, simply minding her own business, then bang go the doors and in floods the water and its all so damn quick that she barely had time to register the fact that she was drowning until she already had?

Or had she died like the people in _Titanic_ died? Floating, waiting for someone to rescue her, until she ran out of energy or heat or strength and simply sunk?

Or like in _Deep Blue Sea_, or whatever that friggin' shark one was. The one where they survived the accident, only to get picked off one by one by the monsters of the deep?

Damn it. Stupid movies. He should have known they'd come back to haunt him one day.

As he scrubbed the sudden moisture from his eyes, Tony realised that there was someone knocking at his door. Had been for a while, probably. He'd been so out of it, thinking of the many versions of death-by-sea that he wouldn't have heard an elephant if it had farted on him.

"'S open," he called half-heartedly, not really caring who was at the door.

Could have been a trio of bank robbers all armed with guns and he would have sat there, gazing up at them in total non-concern. It was the fault of all the alcohol. Really. Nothing else.

As it turned out, it was McGee. McGee, looking all sad and tired and dejected. Almost as though someone had died.

Oh.

Yeah, ok.

"Tony?" McGee asked in concern, letting himself in and closing the door behind him, looking about until he spotted Tony sitting on the floor looking up at him in drunken welcome.

"McDrunk-Buddy!" Tony said, a little noisily, and definitely a little un-clearly. "Have s'm beer. Beer's _good_."

"Have you drunk all these by yourself?" McGee sounded a tiny bit disapproving, and Tony took a little while to properly focus on the pile of empty beer bottles scattered about the floor. Oh. So there _had _been twelve bottles in his fridge yesterday.

" 'Vestigation solved," Tony slurred, regarding the Case of the Missing Beer.

"What?" McGee asked, clearly not following Tony's train of thought.

Tony waved his hand impatiently, not bothering to explain. "Join me, McGee," he said instead in a would-be-grand-if-not-for-the-drunken-slur voice, waving his beer around in the air, "and drown thy sorrows in a jug of ale." There was a pause, and then Tony pulled a bitter expression, realising what he'd just said. "Tsh. _Drown_. 'Propriate."

If there had been any question in McGee's mind as to what had his colleague and friend half lying on the floor, completely drunk, he'd just got his answer. Not that he'd needed it, really. He felt exactly the same – that it would be rather nice to just sit on the floor and drink himself into oblivion so that he didn't have to remember that they'd just lost yet another partner.

But it would do no one any good if both he and Tony got completely smashed.

McGee watched quietly as Tony zoned out again, staring at a spot on the wall and tilting the bottle of beer so that he could take a long draught. McGee sighed sadly.

One beer wouldn't hurt. And besides – it's not like Tony could have that many left, considering how many empties were scattered about.

Leaving Tony to stare morosely about the room, the younger agent went hunting and came back a minute later with a freshly opened bottle in his hand.

"Maybe 's jinxed," Tony muttered to himself as Tim sat down next to him, leaning against the couch as Tony was doing.

"What?" McGee asked, his brow furrowing.

"Th' desk," Tony elaborated. "Firs' Kate, now Ziva… Even Paula sat there for a bit, and she got k'lled too. S're only for like, few seconds, but sh' still sat there. …We should burn that desk."

"Tony... I don't think the desk is jinxed."

"Or th' job, maybe. Maybe i's the job that's cursed," Tony went on, clearly not hearing McGee. There was a brief pause, and then, "Or maybe we just _suck_."

McGee frowned again in confusion. "How do you mean?" he asked timidly, almost afraid of the answer, taking a swig of his drink.

"Men 'r' s'post to look after w'men, aren' we?" Tony explained. "And look how much we suck at it. Kate, Paula, Jenny, Ziva … You realizat we've only ever lost the girls?"

To be honest, McGee hadn't ever noticed. He opened his mouth to say so when Tony suddenly lurched forwards, a terrified expression on his face.

"Abby!" He exploded, struggling to his feet, startling McGee so much that the younger agent jumped violently. "Oh, no, Abby!"

"What?" McGee yelped, surging to his feet too, frightened by Tony's sudden activity. "What about Abby?"

"She's gotta be next! She's the only girl left!" Tony half yelled, looking at McGee in terror, his beer bottle swinging about wildly. He turned suddenly, and McGee had to duck quickly to avoid being hit with the flailing glass.

"We gotta go McGee – we gotta pr'tect her! We can' let her get got too…"

McGee had caught up to Tony's line of thinking by this stage and he hurried around to catch DiNozzo before he made it to the door. "Tony! Tony – Abby'll be fine. She's not gonna get got."

"But she works with us! She's b'n doomed from the start! Gotta get – leggo o' me McGee…" McGee was holding Tony back, and the older agent was struggling to get past him to the door.

"Tony – you're not going to be able to protect anyone in this state, and how do you think Abby will feel if you crash your car on the way to her house because you're too drunk to tell the difference between road and sidewalk?"

Tony was still struggling, and even though his balance was off, _man_ the guy was strong, and Tim was having trouble holding him back.

McGee tried a different angle. "Think about it, Tony! Going by your analysis, Abby's not in any danger. She's not an agent, so if it's the job that's cursed, she's safe; and if it's the desk that's jinxed – well, she's never sat there, has she?"

Tony stilled, finally seeming to hear McGee's words. Either that, or he'd just reached that point of drunkenness where you suddenly run out of energy. Whichever it was, Tim pressed while he had the advantage. "Tony – just sit down, ok? Abby won't thank you if you show up at her place like this."

Tony nodded tiredly, his face miserable, and Tim guided him back to the couch and sat him down, taking the chance while the older agent was distracted to pull the bottle of mostly-drunk-already beer from Tony's hand. McGee doubted he'd notice – Tony looked about ready to pass out.

Tim set the beer down on the floor, careful not to let it tip, and sat down with his back leaning against the couch again, as he had before, keeping one eye focussed on Tony.

McGee's guess was proven right as, once he was settled on the couch, Tony's eyes started to slip shut. "You sure Abby's gonna be ok?" he asked, voice even more slurred now than it had been five minutes ago. Yep. Definitely close to sleep. Weird how alcohol just suddenly hits you like that.

"Sure. Gibbs wouldn't let anything happen to her. He's too good at his job for that."

"Gibbs wasn' able to stop stuff happening to the others," Tony mumbled, hefting his legs up onto the couch so that he was mostly lying down and snuggling deeper into the cushions, already half asleep.

McGee grimaced, but tried not to let Tony see. "Yeah, but none of the others were Gibbs' favourite, were they?" McGee tried to keep his voice light and sure, wanting Tony to stop worrying about everyone's favourite Forensic Scientist.

There was a long pause – so long that Tim thought Tony had fallen asleep, but then the older agent spoke up again. "Well Ziva was _my_ favourite," he mumbled, eyes closed. "Guess that tells you how good _I_ am."

Tim had no response to that. He stayed silent, and not even three minutes later, Tony's light snores filled the room.

McGee sighed as he stood and looked at Tony. It wasn't too warm in the apartment, and it wouldn't take long for the liqueur-heat to wear off. Tim tucked Tony more securely onto the couch – Tony didn't even stir – and headed for the older agent's room.

A few minutes later, the doona from Tony's bed was draped over the sleeping man, and Tim had put a glass of water and two pain pills that had been found in one of the kitchen cupboards on the coffee table next to the couch.

DiNozzo was gonna have a hell of a hangover the next morning.

Tim looked at the bottles scattered over the floor, and pulled out his cell phone, deciding to make a call before cleaning them up.

"Boss?" he said when it answered. "I don't think Tony will be coming in to work tomorrow…"

**OoO**

**AN: Brilliant episode. The Tiva-ness was rife! Oh! It was awesome. The following line was probably my favourite. **

"**Tony! **_**Why**_** are you here?"**

"**Nyah…. Couldn't live without you, I guess."**

**Heh – and then later: **

"**You should have left me alone."**

"**Tried. Couldn't. Listen – you should know that I've taken some sort of truth serum, so if there was any question you didn't want to know the answer to…"**

**Basically, I just loved this episode. One of the best I've seen. Seriously – I get almost as excited at the thought of Tiva as I get at the thought of Dean Winchester. Almost. Not quite the same level of excited, but close.**

**There's a brilliant video I found on YouTube the other day – entitled "(tony/ziva) crawl" by marykatekumar07. SO GOOD. Check it out. Short, but fantastic.**

**Anyway – hope you liked! **

**Bundi**


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